Cross

caught my eye. “Good for you,” he said.

Chapter 71
    IF NANA HAD BEEN WORKING the Georgetown case, in her own inimitable style, she’d have said it was “simmering” about now. Sampson and I had tossed a bunch of interesting ingredients into the mix, and we’d turned the heat up high. Now it was time for some results.
    I looked at the big man across a table full of crime reports spread out between us. “I’ve never seen so much information lead to so little,” I said grumpily.
    “Now you know what I’ve been dealing with on this,” he said, and squeezed and unsqueezed a rubber stress ball in his fist. I was surprised the thing hadn’t burst into a million pieces by now.
    “This guy is careful, seems smart enough, and he’s cruel. Got a powerful angle too—using his souvenirs to threaten these women. Making it personal. In case you hadn’t figured that out already,” I said. I was just talking it through out loud. Sometimes that helps.
    My thing lately, my habit, was pacing. I’d probably covered about six miles of carpet in the past fourteen hours, all in the same Second District station conference room where we were holed up. My feet hurt some, but that’s how I kept my brain going. That and sour-apple Altoids.
    We’d started that morning by cross-referencing the last four years of Uniform Crime Reports, looking for potentially related cases—reaching for anything that could start to tie this thing together. Given what we now knew about our perp, we had looked at female missing persons, rape cases, and especially murder where mutilation was involved. First for Georgetown and then for the whole DC metro area.
    To keep our mood as light as possible, we’d listened to “Elliot in the Morning” on the radio, but even Elliot and Diane couldn’t brighten our moods that day, good as they are at mood-brightening.
    In order to cover all our bases, we made a second pass, checking unsolved murders in general. The result was a list of potential follow-ups that was just as large as it was unpromising.
    One good thing had happened today. Mena Sunderland had granted us another interview, where she went so far as to give a few descriptive details on her rapist. He was a white man, in his forties, she guessed. And from what we could glean from Mena, he was good-looking, which was difficult for her to admit. “You know,” she’d told us, “the way Kevin Costner is good-looking for an older guy?”
    It was an important part of the profile for us to pin down though. Attractive attackers had an edge that made them even more dangerous. My hope was that with a little time and the promise of a lot of protection, Mena would be willing to keep talking to us. What we had so far wasn’t enough for a useful police sketch. As soon as we had a likeness that didn’t match about twelve thousand other faces on the streets of Georgetown, Sampson and I wanted to go wide with it.
    Sampson tilted his chair back and stretched his long legs. “What do you think about getting some sleep and starting in on the rest of these in the morning? I’m cooked.”
    Just then, Betsey Hall came whizzing in, looking a lot more awake than either of us did. Betsey was a newbie detective, eager, but the kind who knew how to be helpful without getting underfoot.
    “You only looked at
female
victims in your cross-refs?” she said. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
    “Why?” Sampson asked.
    “Ever heard of Benny Fontana?”
    Neither of us had.
    “Midlevel mob soldier,
underboss,
I guess is the term.
Was,
anyway,” Betsey said. “He was killed two weeks ago. In an apartment in Kalorama Park. Actually, on the night that Lisa Brandt was raped in Georgetown.”
    “And?” Sampson asked. I could hear the same tired impatience in his voice that I felt. “So?”
    “And so,
this.
”
    Betsey flipped open a file and spread half a dozen black-and-white photographs out on the table. They showed a white man, maybe fifty years old, dead on his back in a living room somewhere. Both of his feet were completely—and freshly—severed at the ankle.
    All of a sudden, I wasn’t so tired anymore. Adrenaline was pumping through my system.
    “Jesus,” Sampson muttered. We were both on our feet now, scanning from one grisly photo to the other, repeating the process a couple of times.
    “The ME’s report says all the cutting on Mr. Fontana was done antemortem,” Betsey added. “Possibly with surgical tools. Maybe a scalpel and saw.” Her